


Inner Fire

by LindseyWells



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, suppressed emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 06:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5529971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LindseyWells/pseuds/LindseyWells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just like Peeta used to revolt against his mother, he is now revolting against the regime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inner Fire

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank my beta Cat for the great beta service!

Searching his mind for the first time his mother had hit him had turned out to be in vain. No matter how often Peeta dives into the deep ocean of his memories, he is simply unable to find this particular moment. He thus supposes that his mother must have beaten him without restraint ever since his earliest childhood.  
Sometimes Peeta is not even sure the poor boy who is given the strap in front of his inner eye is actually himself. Chances are that in some of his memories it is not him but one of his brothers and Peeta's empathy simply does not allow him to distance himself from the piercing pain. After all, that would explain why Peeta feels the hunger sitting outside the bakery's window, even though he has never suffered from hunger throughout his whole life. It would also explain why he decided to bring the good days into being.

The good days are those days when he burns the bread on purpose. Earning his mother's anger for his apparently “endless stupidity” is inevitable, yet Peeta does not mind because he is able to still the hunger outside the window.

Unfortunately, there are also bad days in his life. Bad days are all those days when the bread accidentally burns beyond remedy and therefore can neither be sold nor fed to anyone, not even the pigs. As a punishment Peeta's mother serves her son the inedible lump for dinner.  
“I hope you learn something from this!” is all she ever barks on these days, while she and the other three members of the family enjoy a perfectly normal meal.

The only thing Peeta learns, though, is how to wolf down food without tasting a damn thing and how to get rid of the nasty stuff straight afterwards. Guided by disgust, he quietly sneaks out of the house after dinner. Neither seen nor heard by anybody, he rams his strong fingers down his throat and tortures his palate and the back of his throat until it hurts, until his body starts twitching, his stomach contracts violently and the dark brown mixture of gastric juice and pitch-black, barely chewed bread splashes on the ground.

Peeta has long stopped counting how many times this had happened so far. How often he has buried the results of his rebellion against his mother under earth, twigs, leaves, or whatever is at hand and does the trick. His mother will never know about his unconventional resistance. She might think she can control him but she cannot. He does not let her.

 

As time goes by, Peeta catches himself burning bread more and more frequently, always on days when he is particularly mad at his mother. It has become a confirmed habit of him, a routine, starting with a glance out of the window in order to check whether Katniss is counting on him or not. She is still Peeta's top priority and only her absence allows him some self-care. Meaning he temporarily frees himself from the incinerating feeling of rage and from the hatred of being suppressed. The smell of burnt bread is the harbinger of the smell of vomit, which is nothing else than the odor of Peeta's personal revolt. In spite of his calm appearance and peace-loving personality, his heart is that of a rebel. Thus, Peeta just cannot stop believing that someday, somehow, things will change. They just have to get better. For Katniss, for Peeta, for all of Panem's inhabitants who sacrifice their lives for the good of the Capitol. This hope has always been living in Peeta. It moves out the moment the tributes for the 74th Hunger Games are reaped.

Without any optimism left, Peeta starts his journey to the Capitol. The only thing still accompanying him is the immortal echo of his mother's outraged voice, telling him over and over again that if district 12 actually manages to have a victor this year, this victor will surely not carry her son's name. Peeta's stomach turns because of anger, cramps because of fear, and hurts because of sadness. Something parasitic is drawing from his heart. It is the eternal question of “why”? Why did his mother never believe in him? Why could she only scold but never praise him? Why was she not even mother enough to kiss him goodbye with at least a tiny bit of hope? Instead, she assured him that he had always been a loser and that facing death is not going to change this. She has buried him alive...

Not showing any hints of the depressing thoughts running through his head, Peeta devotes his attention to the wide range of fancy food on the large table. Outside the window, an endless row of steep cliffs and the ocean are passing by. Peeta is painfully aware of the fact that he will never have the opportunity to climb these cliffs, walk along this beach or swim in this ocean. If only Katniss was not on this train with him. If only she was safe...  
Strained, Peeta suppresses a deep sigh by grabbing another bowl of dessert. The pungent stench of alcohol has left its print on the air in the whole train compartment. Peeta smiles this inconvenience away while listening to Haymitch's anecdotes. The man laughs a lot, and Peeta laughs without laughing and eats without restriction. It is not like anybody cares anyway. Not even Peeta cares anymore. His future-self is dead, so there is absolutely no reason for him to worry about gulping down inappropriate amounts of food. Just like Peeta used to revolt against his mother, he is now revolting against the regime: Secretly and as quietly as possible. He has never learned to kill the sound of his retching completely. So when he rises from his chair in order to lock himself in the bathroom, he is aware of the risk he is taking. It does not scare him, though, for he is already a dead man.

Since he just ate like a pig, the first gush of vomit bursts out of his body with full vigor and at maximum volume. As a side effect, the nagging memory of his mother's voice is blown out of his ear canals. The silence feels like balm for Peeta's abused soul. He pukes up another gush but is then compelled to stop due to the suspicion of a noise at the door. Is somebody out there? With his mouth still sour and his stomach still maltreated by the actions Peeta just forced it to perform, he does not dare the slightest move.

A minute passes but all Peeta detects are his harsh breaths. He is alone, except for the stink of his vomit. The puke in the toilet bowl is a gross mess certainly not belonging into this posh bathroom with its soft towels and cheesy wallpapers. The skin of the grapes that decorated Peeta's desserts are swimming on the surface of a brownish sea consisting of meat pieces, pasta, sweet vanilla cream, and countless nibbles. Peeta cannot spot the bread he had eaten because it is the only food he had chewed beyond recognition. This delicious, soft bread that reminded him so much of his home that he immediately knew he would not be strong enough to endure the sight of it again. Homesickness will definitely not preserve him from death. The memories are inundating his mind anyway. This time Peeta allows himself to sigh deeply. The fresh tears in his eyes have absolutely nothing to do with him puking his guts out, but Peeta does not bother to wipe them away. All at once he feels miserable to the core. If only he was home... He would take the cruelest beating and the worst insults because they are still so much more bearable than being on this train and inescapably getting used to the idea of the near end of his life.  
Averting his gaze from the door, Peeta takes another deep breath and pukes until the taste of blood pays a visit to his tongue.

Afterwards, he splashes his face with cold water, rubs his eyes, and washes his hands thrice with the strongly perfumed soap sitting on the edge of the washbasin. Slowly his breathing returns to normal. His heart, though, still hammers against his ribs like a prisoner against the iron bars of his cell. The feeling has been by Peeta's side for so long now that it is like a good friend, a reliable ally. Yet, the second Peeta opens the bathroom door and is confronted with the muted sounds of a harsh argument taking place in the adjoined train compartment, he is one hundred percent sure that, given the opportunity, he would exchange his secret ally against a human one in an instance. There is, however, no time to deepen this thought since all of a sudden a scowling Katniss opens the door of the train compartment and runs past Peeta. Not even obtaining one quick glance at him, she is blind for the signs of rebellion written all over his face.

Katniss is ablaze while Peeta smolders in secret.

He watches after her, feeling the urgent need to grab her wrist and make her look at him, see him. But he cannot do this. At least not yet.

As Peeta enters the compartment, he notices that the bottle of amber-colored whiskey no longer resides on the silver platter among its expensive conspecifics. Instead, it hangs loosely in Haymitch's hand like a criminal at the gallows. The victor of the 50th Hunger Games rather lies than sits in one of the comfortable armchairs and sluggishly turns his head in Peeta's direction.  
“Complained. Said I was drinking too much and teaching you two too little...” The corners of Haymitch's mouth curl up. With the bottle in his hand he points at the door in which Peeta is still standing. Although it is clear beyond doubt to whom Haymitch just referred to, Peeta feels somehow caught red-handed and a darting flame of acid burns his throat. Instinctively, he picks a piece of bread from the small basket standing on the table, chews it, swallows it, and temporarily extinguishes his inner fire.  
“That's probably just her having stage fright,” he states then diplomatically, the tone of his voice far too charming to ever stab somebody in the back.

Haymitch plays along; he accepts the lie with a smile mastered for cameras, before he leans his head back and studies the ceiling for an indefinite time. His eyes focus on something beyond the here and now. They grow wide, distant, almost hopeful.  
Then awareness kicks in and pulls Haymitch back into reality in which the fulfillment of certain roles is demanded from him. Victor, icon, instructor. Abruptly, Haymitch raises the bottle to his cracked lips and shuts his eyelids more tightly than necessary. The whiskey makes his Adam's apple jump like a fawn and keeps his emotions at bay. Peeta never thought it possible to tame fire with alcohol but watching Haymitch drink tells a lot about the way a survivor handles inner firestorms.

Eventually, Haymitch stops drinking and mumbles against the thick glass of the bottle's neck:  
“We still have plenty of food here. Enjoy yourself!” His voice sounds exactly as it did when he offered Peeta a drink earlier that day.

Peeta is truly not surprised.


End file.
